


Dresden Files Fic Meme Fills

by MarjaAkhmatova



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi | Spirited Away, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarjaAkhmatova/pseuds/MarjaAkhmatova
Summary: Various short works, largely incomplete, from my forays into the Dresden Files fandom.  I hope to continue at least a few of these, but no promises.





	1. Spirited Away crossover

**Author's Note:**

> So I want to see a Chihiro who's all grown up and still searching for Haku. Her trip to the Spirit World had managed to awaken her magical talent, maybe not enough to be a member of the White Council, but enough to matter. Anyways, so Chihiro promised to meet with Haku again, right? But she hasn't had any success, and because (insert reason here) she has to move to America. She hasn't given up, though.  
> And then she sees an ad in the Yellow Pages, under 'WIZARD', and meets Harry Dresden, a magic user who has a knack for finding things...
> 
> https://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/2675.html?thread=2389619#cmt2389619

The woman in my office was small, and sort of cute, and not that good at English. She managed well enough, sure, and she was definitely better than I was at Japanese, but it made for a pretty slow and stilted conversation. The real problem, though, was that she’d just turned up at my door during office hours, no appointment made – so I was going in blind – which, if you get conned by the fae and other such supernatural beings as often as I do, can make a fellow a little paranoid. Once introductions were done – she was Chihiro Ogino, of Japan, and… “I need directions.” I admit, I blinked, pretty blankly.

“Uh, I can loan you a map, but...”

“To – _eto_ – court. Of Winter. Court of Winter. I must find Haku.” Well, that was a different matter, then. How this seemingly-vanilla mortal not only knew about the Winter Court, but knew I knew – that could wait a moment, until I had a little more of the story. The more immediate question: “Who’s Haku?”

“Haku is my... mm.” She paused, and thought about it, but somehow I didn’t get the feeling she was working on a translation. “My husband.” I raised an eyebrow, sceptical.

“Why would your husband be with the Winter Court?” Mz. Ogino shrugged a little, and looked at her hands, folded in her lap.

“Went as favour to Yubaba. Has not returned. I am afraid.” I watched her – chewed back nails, shadows under her eyes – and I could believe it. “I understand, but... you can’t just stroll into the Winter Court.” I explained. Understatement. “And who’s Yubaba?” again, she was clearly considering her answer carefully.

“Yubaba is witch. Is master of Haku. Ah – no.” She stopped, corrected herself. “ _Was_ master of Haku. Teaches magic.” “Is Haku a wizard?” That could explain how she knew about the Winter Court, though not what her ‘husband’ was doing there, favour or no. However, Mz. Ogino seemed, for some reason, surprised by the question. “Wizard? Like Mister Dresden?” I nodded, and she giggled behind her hand, making her seem even younger. “No, no. Not at all.” She stopped laughing, and smiled at me. “Haku is _dragon_.”


	2. Hulijingniquan - Ranma 1/2 crossover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I want: Harry somehow gets hit with some of this cursed water (either he's in China and falls in a spring or he's in Chicago and someone dumps it on him or whatever). Anon can pick which spring, though OP would prefer an animal (though "spring of drowned girl" has some pretty interesting possibilities...). Would prefer to see shenanigans where Harry's in one form and trying to avoid hot/cold water so he doesn't change. ("No, I'm not afraid of the rain, damnit!" type things.)
> 
> Would also love to see someone he REALLY doesn't want to find out actually finding out about it (Marcone, Kincaid, Gard, etc.) and then - to his surprise - taking care of him.
> 
> https://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/3344.html?thread=3586576#cmt3586576

My first warning that the day was not going to go well was when I stepped out my front door and was hit in the face by a water balloon. Briefly disoriented by the blow, it took me a few seconds to realise that I had suddenly become shorter. Much, much shorter. And furrier.

Looking out from under my coat, I found myself looking up at the wannabe Dark Lord I’d scared off the week before, along with several of his friends-slash-minions. He was grinning in a rather maddened fashion, and, striking a pose, he shouted, “Ah-hah!!!”

Yes, he actually shouted _‘Ah-hah!!!’_ I can only conclude that he had been watching way too many Hammer Horror films in one go.

"Now you will know suffering, Harry Dresden!” The leader went on, pointing dramatically down at me. “That was water from the cursed springs of China! Cursed by the spirit of a drowned fox!” While I tried to work out what they’d done to me, he paused to laugh, and added unnecessarily, “Stripped of your magic, you’ll be helpless against your every foe!” I snarled wordlessly at the idiotic teens and, presumably feeling that they’d used up their store of bravado for the day, the group ran to their van and drove off with a squeal and a screech.

I crawled out of my clothes, and shook the water out of my fur. Stars and stones, what the hell had those bozos managed to do to me? Had they actually managed to transform me? That was tricky magic, and that group didn’t seem like they could handle anything more challenging than a minor hex or two. “Hells’ bells, Harry, how do you get into these things?” I muttered.

Then I realised I’d said that aloud. I, a wizard-turned-fox, had spoken.

Now, I’ll admit I’m not the most knowledgeable on most wildlife. Farm animals I do okay on (the benefit of spending a good few years on a farm in the Ozarks); beasties of the Nevernever I can generally identify if it’s going to try and rip my face off (90% that’s a yes); vanilla animals less so. I was, however, pretty sure that most foxes can’t talk.

Fortunately, I hadn’t shut the door behind me before the water balloon had hit, so I could drag my clothes back in with no trouble. Unfortunately, I couldn’t open the trapdoor. This meant I couldn’t get to Bob, and ask him about this cursed spring, and if there was a cure. After a moment, though, I discovered I had another problem or two – Mouse was standing in the doorway to the lounge room, staring wide-eyed, and Mister had stood up in his spot on the counter and was starting to bristle and growl. 

“Whoa, Mister,” I stammered – hey, he looked much bigger from that height! – “it’s me, okay? It’s Harry.”

Turns out that cats can fall over from shock. Who knew? Well, once he’d gathered himself (and Mister and I had stopped looking intently at the ceiling), he stood up, glared at me, and said with the roughest Chicago accent I’d ever heard, “Prove it, fox. Speaking Human won’t cut it.” I thought frantically. What was something that I and Mister knew that wasn’t common knowledge?

“I found you in a garbage can.” I tried. He kept watching me. “I’ve had you for six years.” Still watching. “Uh... when you were a kitten, you used to climb up to the top of the fridge, but then you’d get stuck and cry to be let down-” “ _Shutupshutupshutup!_ ” Mister hissed. “Fine. It’s you.” He sniffed. “Should have guessed. Only you’d get yourself turned into a fox.” With that, he stalked past me and jumped up to sit on the couch, from where he watched me with a distinctly disdainful eye. Pretty much the same as always, then.

“Hello, Harry.” Mouse said, perfectly calm. “Hey, Mouse.” I replied, relieved. Mouse is a Fu Dog, with the inborn ability to sense evil and magic. If he’d reacted badly, I would have had a _real_ problem. Not that Mister, a gigantic street-fighting tom cat, going for my throat _wouldn’t_ have been a problem; just less of a problem than the 150-pound temple guardian being convinced that I was an evil spirit trying to pass for his master.

“You seem to have been transformed.” He observed blandly. Ordinarily, I would have responded to a statement of the obvious like that with something snarky and biting, but Mouse’s mild curiosity and overall calm was so welcome under the circumstances that I restrained myself. 

“Yeah. I need to talk to Bob, find out what I am, how to fix it...” He nodded peaceably, and walked over to flip back the rug that hid the trapdoor. “I will require some assistance, Mister,” he said, and, grumbling slightly, Mister got up and stalked back over. “You’re a fox.” He said, sounding almost sulky. “Why don’t you just – turn into yourself?” he asked. “How?” I asked blankly. I was getting the feeling there was something of a language barrier in effect, even if we both seemed to be speaking English. Mister sniffed disdainfully. “Tch, I’m a cat. What would I want with fox tricks? Maybe you should ask a fox!”

And that, presumably, was that.

Mouse took the ring of the trapdoor delicately in his teeth, and slowly lifted the door just high enough for Mister to step in and wedge himself firmly in the gap. Carefully releasing the ring, Mouse came around and, sticking his head in the opening, pushed the trapdoor open until it thumped back onto the floor. Carefully, and somewhat awkwardly, I descended the stairs to my workroom.

“Wakey, wakey, Bob…”

In the gloom, orange lights flared, and a bodiless wolf-whistle sounded. “Hey, foxy,” said an unmistakably lavicious voice, “how’d you get past the wards? Has Harry finally given in to the sexy side of the Force?”

My voice, when I spoke, was very flat. “It’s me, Bob.”

Bob clattered in shock, and of course, then burst out laughing. “Harry,” he managed, “when I said you needed to change your look, this isn’t exactly what I was thinking!”

“I didn’t do this!” I snapped. “It was this bunch of idiotic teenaged would-be Dark Lords I chased off the other week.” I explained the full story, from breaking their weak-as curse on that woman, to driving them off with pistol in hand, to this morning’s more... uncomfortable encounter. Bob, having eventually stopped laughing at my state, listened carefully. When I finished, he was silent for a few seconds, muttering to himself, before asking, “Wait, you said that Darth Wannabe said that the water came from a cursed spring?” 

“Yeah, cursed by the drowned spirit of a fox. Very dramatic, and all.” I confirmed.

“In China?” he asked. I didn’t like the tone in his voice, but I said, “I think so, yeah. You know it?” 

“Yeah...” Now I really didn’t like his tone. Whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

“What is it, Bob?” I sighed, and he hummed and hawed for a few moments before saying, “Look, Boss, if I’m right, there’s good news!” I wasn’t sure I trusted this, but good news had been pretty lacking so far today. “Lay it on me!” 

“You can turn back into a human with hot water.” 

“That’s it? I just need hot water, and poof, no more curse?” That was much better than I’d expected. I was almost willing to be cheerful before Bob mumbled, “Uh, not quite...” 

“What? What is it?” 

“If you get hit with cold water, you’re back like this. You, uh, you can’t break the curse.” I froze for a second, and went straight into Denial mode. “No, Bob, that’s not how curses work.” I argued. “They always have an out, even if it sounds completely impossible, even if it’s fatal or insane or whatever – there’s always a way!” 

“Not with this!” He shouted back, just as emphatic, and, annoyingly, probably with evidence on his side. “Boss, if I’m right about where that water came from, the only place I can think of in China that has cursed springs that transform living beings into other beings, there is no way to break the curse. You might be able to lock yourself into one shape, but that’s just treating the symptoms, not curing the disease. _It's a death curse_. There. Is. Nothing.”

The flaring of Bob’s eyes punctuated this pronouncement, each word being snapped out with awful finality. I cringed, and started to pace about the lab, trying not to panic. A fox! I was stuck as a fox! Well, I could turn back into myself if I could get some hot water, but the minute it rained or I tried to have a shower – fox again! How was I going to explain this to Murphy? To Michael? Hell’s bells, what if Marcone found out? What would Eb say?

I tried to think of a bright side. Maybe if I could work out a spell for hot water, and another for cold, I could transform on command! Foxes aren’t exactly the most imposing animals, but a wizard where there was a fox, or a fox where there was a wizard, could provide the element of surprise just when I needed it.

On the other hand… fox! I was a fox!

As though realising that my thoughts had started spiralling uselessly, Bob interjected cheerfully, “It’s not all bad, boss! One way, you’re a wizard; the other, you’re a magical shapeshifting fox spirit!”

That reminded me of the other question I had – “Bob, what exactly have I turned into? Because I’m pretty sure that normal foxes can’t talk. Or shapeshift, either.”

If there was anything that was going to calm Bob down, it was bemoaning my lack of scholarship and my patchy magical education. After a few minutes of that, he saw fit to explain, “You’re not a fox, you're a fox spirit." I was as blank as a fox can be. “Oh, come on Harry!” He groaned. “East Asian, connected with the fae, tricksters, shapeshifters, magic users, sexy – anything sounding familiar here?” I continued blank, mostly to annoy him. Bob grumbled a little under his breath, and said rather tiredly, “Kitsune, or Huli Jing, or Kumiho are all shapeshifting fox spirits from East Asia, known to be able to live very long lives, possess people, and trick the unwary for fun or money or food. Kitsune and Huli Jing are about as nice as they want to be – which can be really nice, or really nasty – but Kumiho tend to be pretty nasty characters. They have a liking for human livers, fresh.”

I thought about this. If the springs were in China, it was more likely that I was a Huli Jing, but it would stand some investigation. I didn’t want to wake up one morning with a desire to rip out someone’s liver and eat it. I don’t even like liver.

Bob added, “Huli Jing and Kitsune are also sometimes associated with the end of corrupt regimes. Hey, you could use your foxy lady shape to bring down the Merlin!” He suggested this with his usual cheer regarding sex. I spent an unwilling moment visualising myself seducing the Merlin, and shuddered all over. “No, Bob.” I said firmly. “ _Never_.”

He sulked for a few seconds before bouncing back to say, “Well, even if you’re not going to do anything fun with it, why not try out that shapeshifting, see if you can’t just turn into yourself?”

And while I’ll admit this certainly _sounded_ like a great idea… it didn’t really work.


	3. Father of the Wolf - Loki is Harry's dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Dresden = Loki On a Sabbatical  
> Which means, anons and nonanons, that Harry is Loki's kid.  
> Go nuts.  
> I admit I'm picturing movie!Loki, but it can be any version of Loki authornon prefers.  
> Family reunion? Harry meets Hel? Fenrir? Jormungandr?  
> Loki gets out of whatever cell Odin's had him in for the past few decades and decides he and his youngest need some father son bonding time?  
> He decides to check out Harry's boy/girl friend(s)?  
> Uncle Thor comes to visit?
> 
> https://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/2675.html?thread=2622579#cmt2622579

_Harry Dresden dreamed._

_  
_

_A beautiful woman sat on a throne in a dark cavern, skeletal feet peeping from beneath the hem of her dress. Two boys supped and played and scrapped together, before one of them turned into a wolf and tore the other’s throat out. A little snake became a giant snake became Mister, who wound about his ankles and gazed up with yellow eyes. A huge wolf sat chained in a cave, and looked up at the sun and moon, each of them chased by another wolf. An eight-legged horse ran over earth and clouds, fast as thought. And behind it all, above it all, Malcolm Dresden smiled the smile of the man who knows which card you picked, where the dove came from, which cup the coin is under and how it got there; and furthermore, who knows you are never, ever going to figure it out._

Harry awoke, uneasy, and lay awake for some time.

\---

Over the course of millennia, Loki had taken many lovers – long term, one night; female, male; human, not. There hadn’t been many, though, that had fascinated him as deeply as the lady who called herself Margaret Le Fay. He’d been living as a human when they met: him, a stage magician by the name of Dresden; her, a wizard on the run from her last lover, a White Court vampire. He wooed her with earnest sweetness and a (well practiced) appearance of normality, and gradually they fell in love. She ‘introduced’ him to magic, enjoying his wide eyes and sense of wonder; he gave her peace and laughter and scapegrace charm, and didn’t retreat in the face of her fiery temper and strange (and often highly dangerous) friends*. Even as she agreed to marry him, though, he could sense her past catching up quickly, and with a vengeance.

But she was beautiful, and full of life, and new love is distracting even to gods. Furthermore, the realisation that Margaret was pregnant pushed such concerns even further from his thoughts as they tried to prepare for the coming child, even as they continued to travel from town to town. Tragically, those lingering fears were to be grimly realised when, on the night of their son’s birth, Margaret died. As Loki held her hand and watched her breathe her final, desperate protection upon their child, he promised himself that he would find whoever was responsible for this: Margaret had been strong and healthy, and there was no reason for her to have died him such a manner. Someone had killed his wife, and left Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden motherless (he had wanted to give his son more names, but the nurse had baulked. Not to worry – there would be time enough for other names, later). They would suffer.

But for the moment, he had a child to raise, tricks to practice, a disguise to maintain, and a past to avoid.

This worked quite well for several years – Harry was a wonderful child, bright and strong; and even if the money to be made in stage magic was less than plentiful, they never went hungry or without shelter. Then, of course, disaster struck once more. Early one morning, as he lay in bed in a cheap, but clean, hotel room; a curse struck him. Constrained by his human form, he found himself paralysed, all his senses muted, his lungs stilled, every nerve alight with pain. Frantically, he tried to fight it off and, when that failed, instinctively freed himself in the quickest and most straightforward manner he could. Parted from his tortured flesh, unable to gather the will to take on a new form, his spirit drifted into darkness

And, for years, that was the last he knew of his son.

 

*Loki, naturally, spent every one of these meetings repressing the desire to burst out laughing.

\---

The Winter fey known as the Leanansidhe was enjoying a quiet evening in – a glass of something that may or may not have been wine, her hounds about her feet, a snowstorm howling outside – when a knock came at the door. Startled, and wondering who would make the journey to her house rather than call her to them, she nodded to one of her sprites to open the door. Once unbarred, the heavy oak door slammed open, a snow-heavy blast of wind rushing through and depositing white flakes everywhere (though the blue-white flames in the hearth were undisturbed).

A slight figure, swathed in thick furs, entered the hall (the door slamming shut behind), paused, and dismissed its cloaks and hood into a swirl of mist; revealing a slender, lovely young man, with black hair and pale skin; dressed in green and gold armour. He smiled, and sketched a brief bow.

“Leanansidhe.”

Surprised anew, the Leanansidhe stood and nodded to her guest. “Loki Silvertongue,” she said, addressing him by one of the more polite of his many names. “It has been some time. What brings you to my hall this evening?”

Loki looked around the room and did not reply. As he looked, his smile faded slightly, and a small line appeared between his brows. Eventually, he said, “Your godson is not in residence.”

The Leanansidhe stilled, cold anger appearing in her eyes, and one small fist clenched. “If you have come with a solution to my godson’s recalcitrance, Silvertongue, you are welcome; but if you have simply come to mock-” he raised a hand to still her, and said quickly, “I have come not to mock, but in expectation of finding young Harry safe in your hall. To not do so came as a shock, and I apologise for any misapprehension given.”

Appeased, but confused, she subsided, and waved to an attendant sprite. “Bring my guest wine,” she commanded. “We clearly have much to discuss.”

Seated before the roaring fire, the two supernatural figures appraised one another. The Leanansidhe was the first to speak.

“Tell me, then,” she said, placing her goblet on a small table, “why you come seeking my impulsive godson?” Loki smiled, and held his wine up to the light.

“Harry is my son.”

She was taken aback at his words, but rallied smoothly and barely showed her shock and disbelief, simply saying, “Nonsense. Malcolm Dresden was...”

As Loki shifted his face, the Leanansidhe fell silent, and stared. “Malcolm Dresden.” She said eventually. “I was given to understand that you were dead. And mortal, at that.”

At that, Loki chucked. “Do not fret,” he said lightly, in a tone rather more mocking than it was comforting. “I have deceived even the Aesir. And, be honest – you weren’t looking for power in a little mortal illusionist, were you?” The Leanansidhe fumed, and he laughed again, before quickly sobering.

“I was dead.” Loki said solemnly. “I was struck by a very powerful, and very painful curse. I have only recently recovered enough to return to Midguard, and I wish to find my son. He is more dear to me than most I have born or sired, and I feel a great need to know that he is safe and well.” His hostess nodded understandingly.

“He is a sweet child,” she said thoughtfully, “sweet and brave and occasionally quite clever. He is impetuous, though; stubborn, contrary even, and somewhat excessively heroic.”

With a casual air, she waved one hand, and the fire shifted and blurred, the image of a tall, lean young man appearing in the hearth. Through scrawny, in need of a shave and probably a few good nights of sleep, and distinctly unkempt; he was fairly handsome, with well-defined cheekbones, fine eyes, and a strong figure. He was clad in a long, dark coat; the hem of which melted into the flames below.

A few moments more, and the image dissolved back into the dancing blue-white flames. The Leanansidhe pretended not to have seen the way Loki had almost – but not quite – reached out a hand to the image, nor the look of almost painful yearning in his eyes.

“He takes after his mother very much,” Loki said thoughtfully, toying once more with his goblet. “He has my height – inevitable, for one of Jötunn blood – but nonetheless, he favours her greatly.” He paused again, and asked carefully, “If you please, my lady, tell me what you know of his life since I was torn from him.”

Though faeries tend to lack creativity (save in the construction of careful half-truths and white lies) they very much enjoy stories – both listening to, and telling. The Leanansidhe gave a smug, contented smile, and relaxed back in her seat.

“Let me see... the first time we formally met, he had just slain his teacher, and was fleeing He Who Walks Behind...”

A few smashed goblets later, the Leanansidhe wrapped up her recounting of Harry’s life, largely as reported by a team of surveillance sprites. Loki accepted a new goblet of wine and gathered his control, his hair returning to its former sleekness, the scarring about his mouth smoothing and disappearing. By and by, he spoke.

“If Harry did consent to come with you, Lady Leanansidhe, what would you then do?” he asked, staring into the blue flames, his eyes dark.

She smiled at some internal vision, and said, “I would make him one of my hounds, and keep him with me always. He would have no more fears and woes, no more need to struggle, to fight; never again would he go without food, or rest, or companionship.”

Loki did not frown, nor did his expression shift noticeably, but when he next spoke there was something subtle in it, careful and coaxing. “But you would hold his leash.” He said quietly. “His will would no longer be his own, and he would run and hunt only at your command.”

“Indeed.” Her expression clearly said how little problem she had with this. “Your point, Silvertongue?”

He thought carefully about how to proceed. While his own power was certainly greater than the Leanansidhe’s, he was sitting in her own hall, and if there was anywhere that she could defeat him, this was it. Furthermore, he had no desire to alienate anyone who could help him look after his apparently quite trouble-prone child. “While I quite understand your intent,” he said slowly, precisely, “Margaret fled her own father when he tried to control her. Is it any wonder that her son would do the same?” She considered this. Cautiously hopeful, Loki went on, “A few years as a hound never did me any harm, but these children – they have to learn who they are, make their own way for a bit.”

Eventually, the Leanansidhe sighed, and nodded. “I had considered that point,” she admitted, “but my pride allowed me to ignore such facts. But what would you suggest? He clearly cannot be left alone – he is far too much a trouble-seeker for that.”

“Allow me a few years with him.” Loki suggested daringly. “Time to work my way into his life, to teach and guide him, let him grow a little. In perhaps a score of years, if he does not seem competent enough to you, you may resume your attempts to have him join your hounds.” The Leanasidhe recoiled, one hand clasped to be bosom in an attitude of shock.

“Twenty!” She exclaimed. “I would wish to have him for some of his boyhood yet. No, no – ten is more than enough.” The lady concluded firmly. Now it was Loki’s turn to assume an expression of socked dismay.

“Ten, milady? A mere flickering of an eye! And when I, his father, have already missed out on so much of his life? You are too cruel. And indeed,” he added, “as my son, you must know that he will live for many centuries before he even becomes old, if he ever does. Allow me such a paltry sum of years as fifteen, and I swear that if ever I feel he is in need of your care and guidance, I will call upon you, whether he will or no.” His hostess’s expression remained dubious, but Loki knew at once that he had won the debate.

“Fifteen years seems an appallingly long time to be without my beautiful boy, and I am most reluctant to deprive myself of his youth and charm;” she said slowly, and sighed. “But your claim is valid, and your points are fair. I shall withdraw myself, and come only on his call or your own.” The Leanansidhe held out her hand, and Loki stood, took it, and shook once, bowing slightly. “My thanks, Lady Leanansidhe, for your consideration and generosity.” He smiled, and called his furs back into being, turning towards the door. “I will take my leave of you, now, as I must seek out others who might provide aid or threat to dear Harry.” With that, he departed, leaving the Leanansidhe staring thoughtfully into the fire.

She wondered, absently, if she should inform her queen of this development, before dismissing the thought. This way would be _much_ more interesting.


	4. Father of the Wolf II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of this, but taking place toward the end of _Fool Moon_ , because why not.

Loki considered the situation – his son, in over his head (just like his father); the mafia boss, who might be amusing if he weren’t trying to bind his precious boy as surely as the Asgard had treacherously bound Fenrir; the loup-garou, no more responsible for his actions than any wild beast, but no less deadly for it; and the government agents, corrupted by supernatural power and their own self-righteousness. “My son, you have wolves at your door and no mistaking.” He muttered to himself.

Then, an idea occurred. An idea that so amused him that he began to laugh aloud; a low, warm chuckle, that invited listeners to share in the humour. He continued to smile and laugh even as he stepped into the Nevernever, and began to walk over stone and snow, heading for the peak of a high, jagged mountain.

He reached the very top, far faster than any human could; and there, surrounded by the darkness of space and the fractured lights of the stars, he whistled, and called two names.

By and by, two wolves ran down out of the sky, and stopped by Loki’s feet, panting deeply. One was a pale, almost golden colour; the other a worn black. Both of them were lean, rangy beasts; their coats faded from too long a hunt with neither food nor rest; their eyes bright with a more than animal intelligence. And, though neither stood taller than Loki’s waist [there being little else about for comparison], they gave an impression of immense size.

Loki grinned down at the pair, and said, “Now, pups, I have a little task for you. Our youngest has gone and gotten himself into some trouble with a group of wolf-skin-users, and there’s a loup-garou on the loose, and he could do with some assistance.” The wolves grinned, and sat up, ears pricked. “Good. I’ll show you where to find them.”

The wolves went eagerly. Chasing the sun and the moon across the sky is not the worst job, but the opportunity for a little hunt was a welcome break from the monotony. This, they would relish.

\---

In the distance, a wolf howled. Trapped in a deep pit, Harry and Murphy shivered, and stared up at the sky. “MacFinn?” Murphy wondered aloud. “No.” They turned, to find Tera West likewise staring upwards, a puzzled look in her face. “No, that was not MacFinn. I don’t know who it was, though.”

Harry groaned, and slumped wearily against the dirt wall. “Great,” he mumbled. “Just what we need. More wolves.”

Of course, it was at that moment that a deep growl reached their ears.

MacFinn had at last arrived.

His mind completely overtaken by the savagery of the loup-garou, he crouched at the edge of the pit, eyes fixed upon the dangling morsel that John Marcone represented. Harry shifted nervously, and the slight sound at once caught the loup-garou’s attention, red eyes rolling down to focus on another target. The beast growled again, and began to pace the edge of the pit, anxious to kill. Below, Harry planned frantically, quarreled with Marcone, and watched the wolf closely as it paced, trying to decide which target to go after first. With the help of a carefully-concealed knife, Marcone was able to cut himself free, and drop a rope into the pit for those trapped there; but even as Harry began to climb to freedom (or, possibly, a slightly less ignominious death), the loup-garou picked a target and coiled itself to leap.

Marcone shouted, Harry twisted to look over his shoulder (throwing himself into a spin that, in any other situation, would have been quite amusing), and MacFinn launched himself into the air – and almost at once was intercepted by a pair of smaller, blurred figures. Their combined weight and the force of their impact was enough to knock the loup-garou out of the air and into the dirt beside the pit. Harry stared as the two figures resolved themselves into a pair of wolves the size of ponies, one black as coal, the other a pale blond. The wolves attacked MacFinn, taking advantage of the surprise, then just as abruptly as they had arrived, turned and ran into the trees. The loup-garou, enraged, ran after them, his human prey forgotten.

Harry wisely did not stop to wonder at this strangely fortunate turn of events, and instead continued climbing until he was able to throw himself from the rope to the edge of the pit. He barely made it, fingers digging grooves in the soil as he struggled to keep himself from falling back, desperation spurring him on. So focused was he that he barely heard Marcone, somewhere behind him, shout a warning.

He did, however, notice massive canine feet entering his field of vision, and hot breath on his neck.

 _Shit_ , he thought.

\---

The wolf standing over him snuffled at the back of Harry’s neck, breath stirring his hair and turning his already worn nerves almost to jelly. Then the wolf moved oddly, and Harry found himself being dragged forwards out of the pit, on to solid ground, by the back of his shirt. The wolf kept moving back until they were some feet from the edge, and then unceremoniously dropped Harry on his face and sat down beside him.

After a few seconds, Harry realised that he was still alive and had not been eaten, and rolled onto his back and stared at the wolf.

The wolf was huge, made bigger still by Harry’s perspective, but lean and scruffy. It fixed him with one bright eye, and he was struck by the difference between it and MacFinn, or the Hexenwulfen. This creature, whatever it was, was obviously intelligent – highly intelligent. It was self aware and self controlled, and it had chosen to rescue him.

“Well?” It said, in a deep, rough voice. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

Harry stared, open mouthed. The wolf made a tutting sort of sound, and went on, “Surely your father taught you better than that.”

Harry continued to stare, and after some time, swallowed dryly and managed a “Thanks.” He sat up. Somewhere, not too far away, there was shouting; obviously the Hexenwulfen had noticed this strange turn of events, and were not entirely happy. The rope jerked as it was once more made use of, and Tera West appeared, leaping to solid ground with substantially more grace than Harry had. Barely sparing Harry’s saviour a glance, she said, “I’m going to go after MacFinn. Those two won’t be able to hold him for long, and I know him well enough to keep him distracted.” Beside Harry, the wolf chuckled, and replied, “Oh, they’ll surprise you – but a good plan, nevertheless. I told them that the Hexenwulfen were their main targets, so they’ll probably be heading back this way soon.”

Still pointedly ignoring the _fucking talking wolf, stars and stones_ , Tera shifted into her own wolf form and ran into the trees, the same way MacFinn had gone. With her gone, Harry finally gathered his thoughts enough to ask the most pertinent question. “Not that I’m... not grateful,” he began, “but who are you?”

The wolf chucked, low and gravelly. “There are those,” he said, “who call me Father of Monsters, or the Unquiet Thought, or the Bound God, but you may call me...” he paused. Somewhere, not far enough away for comfort, a wolf howled. “Tim.”

 _This might_ , thought Harry, _not be as bad as I expected..._


	5. A Warlock Uncivil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to either mental trauma from the failed thralling, blissful ignorance, or simple confusion over terminology, when Harry finally sorts through the latin and figures out he's been charged as a 'warlock', his first response is denial: "But Justin told me I was a wizard!"  
> Warlock, via Discworld, is the term used to refer to a male witch (or a guy who just thinks he is a male witch). Yes, I did just finish reading Equal Rites, why do you ask?  
> It takes a little while for Eb to figure this out. Meanwhile, Harry has decided that if being a Wizard (complete with funny staff, which had always looked so impressive when Justin used his) means kidnapping trauma victims and talking in gibberish, he'd rather not, thank-you-very-much. He's quite happy being a warlock.  
> Give me a Harry that brews lust potions (and morning-afters), reads tea-leaves (badly), and occasionally accompanies Bob when Borrowing Mister. Would love to see turf war between Harry and Sells, but that's just me.
> 
> https://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/2675.html?thread=2829683#cmt2829683

The frying pan hit the monster with a sound like a car having a head on collision with a toad. The creature didn’t even have time to shriek, spindly arms flailing briefly in death throes before the whole thing began to sink back into the murky water. Floating waterweed drifted back into place, leaving no indication anything had happened at all.

I watched until I was sure it was gone, then stepped back from the pond and turned to smile at my client. Jennifer Woo, age nine, smiled back a little hesitantly, and loosened her frantic grip on her little sister, Penny.

Her concern was justified – Penny had, after all, been the bait in our little monster-hunting scenario, and while a two year old might not have a very clear conception of danger, a nine year old is pretty good at understanding ‘Pointy-toothed long-clawed monster = bad’. So she called me, promising me the princely sum of “Twenty-two dollars, seventeen cents, and all my pocket money for a year” if I got rid of the monster in the creek at the bottom of their garden.

Most adults, upon hearing that sort of request, would do one of three things, generally depending on how much they liked kids. One, they would hang up. Two, they would ask to speak to the caller’s mother, and explain to said parent that perhaps the child might need fewer fairy tales of an evening. Three, and this was a long shot, they would go over, glance over the garden, and assure the little girl that there were no monsters present.

I, on the other hand, am a warlock, a male witch. It’s my job to listen to people that others ignore.

So I listened closely, asked a few questions, and told my new client that their unwelcome guest was Jenny Greenteeth, and that I would be over presently.

Fortunately for me, Mr Woo was of the breed of single father who, while entirely loving and dedicated to his children, tends to spend far more time at work than at home. So, with the help of Jennifer, I was easily able to slip into the house, explain the plan, smack Jenny out of this reality, and slip out again, all before he got home from work. I also took a moment to negotiate my pay, coming away with a pound of rice, a bag of apples, twenty dollars in very small change, and a solemn promise to leave a saucer of milk under a bush once a week. I also handed over a few of my personally-written pamphlets – ‘ _Daisy Chains and Cold Iron: Dealing with Faeries_ ’, ‘ _Urban Magic in Modern America_ ’, and ‘ _The Seven Laws of Magic; or, How Not to Get Your Head Cut Off_ ’. I suspected she might need that one.

\---

It’s funny, really, how things work out sometimes.

When I was arrested for the murder of my mentor, Justin Du Morne, and the violation of the First Law of Magic, I was in a complete panic. I’ve been told that when people are under a huge amount of stress, their minds sometimes find one, otherwise inconsequential, thing to latch on to, to stop them from being overwhelmed at the enormity of the situation. People about to die, worrying about who’s going to feed the cat; that sort of thing.

So, really, I guess it’s not so astonishing that, when the Wardens – enforcers for the White Council – first caught me, and called me ‘warlock’, that that’s what I grabbed on to. Dad had been a magician, sure, and Justin had told me that I was a wizard (me and Elaine, but there was a wound far too fresh to touch), but warlock? That was a new one on me.

I worked it out though, during my ‘trial’ – that’s what the White Council calls it when they tie you up, put a sack over your head, and shout at you about what a terrible monster you are. They were wizards, and I was a warlock. Wizards got to judge, warlocks got judged. Justin had been a wizard, I was a warlock. Wizards were good, warlocks were nasty bad ungrateful murderers.

Look, I was seventeen, traumatised, and maybe a little melodramatic, okay?

So I decided that, frankly, I didn’t want to be a wizard, if these bastards were the shining standard of wizardry. So I was a warlock.

Even later, when I started spending time with my mentor and court ordained guarantor of good behaviour Ebenezer McCoy, who wasn’t a bad guy, overall; I continued to refer to myself as a warlock. Eventually, he gave in. He explained, one day while we were mucking out the stables, that, while he was a pretty damn good wizard, if I didn’t want to be a wizard that there wasn’t much beyond the basics that he could teach me. So he found someone who could.

Most of my education in what Eb always called ‘witchcraft’ (I know, coming from a wizard? Little weird) was handled by two old women who lived near Eb’s farm – by ‘near’, I mean, ‘less than three hours walk’. It was that sort of area.

Goodie and Gammar were perfect stereotypes, old ladies out of fairytales – only Gammar was the sweet little grandmother who made cookies and was eaten by the wolf, and Goodie (contrary to her name) seemed more likely to turn people into frogs or trees. Not that she did. As far as I know. Nothing was ever proven, at least.

Naturally, they were both terrifyingly strong in body and soul: they might have been tiny old women, but that only mean they were _concentrated_ , and had time to really _practice_ being terrifyingly strong.

Our first meeting was not promising.


	6. Robin B. Goode - feral child!Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feral!Harry  
> Harry runs from Justin when he's younger (11?) and has turned practically feral. Bob taught Harry how to hide from Justin and anything else he thought would help.  
> John Marcone finds Harry huddled in an alley clutching a human skull like a teddy bear and takes him in. John re-civilizes him and trains him to be his right hand man once he grows up.
> 
> https://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/3344.html?thread=3094800#cmt3094800

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-explicit child abuse, and mind control

Harry had spent several years in and out of foster homes, good and bad, by the time one Justin DuMorne found him. In this time, he had learned many things.

He learned that there are people in the world who will go out of their way to help you… but most won’t, and there are those who will go out of their way to harm you, simply because they can.

He learned that there are dark things, and dark places in the world... but don’t talk about them. No one will believe you, anyway.

He learned to trust his instincts.

So when smiling, avuncular Justin came along – willing, even eager, to adopt the strange little problem child who’d never managed to stick with one home for more than a few months at a time – Justin with the big house and the good food and Elaine, who was quiet but nice…

Well, he kept his wits about him.

So when he found the human skull in Justin’s study, the skull that talked and told him things he didn’t want to know, but _needed_ to know…

He was prepared.

 

Bob (as Harry named him) told him lots of things. Like the power of a name, or a drop of blood, or a single hair. About the Council, and the Laws, and men with swords. How magic could make you always happy, happy, happy to obey, happy to kill, happy to serve any purpose a wizard might put you to (Bob seemed unclear of the distinction between a wizard and a warlock, but eventually said “Warlocks are the ones who got caught”).

So Harry built his control (incredibly hard for an energetic young boy, but the threat of a life under mind control is a pretty good motivator), and kept his few possessions close, and made sure to clean up after himself (Bob had, in fact, slightly exaggerated the amount that a wizard of Justin’s power could do with a single hair, but whatever worked).

And, despite all his attempts at alertness, all his hard work, he still nearly lost it all in a single night.

Harry had been speaking to Bob for several months by that time, and he knew that Justin was getting suspicious. Harry, in turn, became even more careful around him, trying to keep aware of everything he ate or drank, making sure Justin couldn’t get so much as a toenail clipping, and only talking to Bob when he was certain that Justin wasn’t about.

Unfortunately, he didn’t extend this awareness to Elaine. As such, the tranquilizer in the orange juice came as something of a surprise.

 

\---

 

When Harry woke up, he was lying on the floor, his wrists bound behind him. Someone – presumably Justin – was standing about a foot away. Harry twisted to look upwards, squinting to see through the fog in his head. Yep, Justin. He wasn’t looking at Harry, though – he was looking at Elaine, who was crawling about the floor on her knees, adding the final touches to a chalk circle. There seemed to be something strange about the way she was moving, but he couldn’t quite process it yet. He must have made a sound, because Justin looked at him, and while his smile was the same as it ever was, his eyes were something terrible.

“Harry,” he said, smiling down. “So good of you to join us. Elaine was worried about you, weren’t you, Elaine?” Off to the side, Elaine made a faint, distressed sound; like a kitten trying to push aside a table. Justin’s smile became a little wider, and a little colder. “I didn’t want to do this so soon,” he said evenly, pacing about the room and examining the circle, “but you forced my hand. Speaking to the spirit – did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Your control has grown exponentially these last two months. Your frankly abysmal knowledge of Latin has improved markedly. You’ve even started cleaning up after yourself.” Justin came back around in front of Harry, and in a frighteningly quick motion, dropped into a crouch and snarled, “Did you really imagine you could _escape?_ ”

As Harry recoiled, knocking his head against the floor, Justin stood back up, smoothing away the signs of his madness. He went on, “Anyway, even if I couldn’t control you – and rest assured, I _will_ control you – little Elaine here was not so lucky.” He patted her on the head, and smiled, before stepping away to search through his desk for something. As he did so, he passed a certain skull.

The skull’s eyeholes flared orange for a second.

Harry stared at Bob, then into Elaine’s frightened eyes, as her will beat helplessly against Justin’s, and was so angry that he almost missed the way her left hand darted out and, in one quick movement, ran over the chalk circle.

Justin kept speaking, monologing, talking about the Council and power and control, but Harry didn’t hear. Something in his head was yelling at him. The circle was broken. _The circle was broken._

He was only going to get one shot at this.

Harry reared up, rolling to his knees, facing wide-eyed Elaine, and shouted, “ _Ignio!_ ” Passing straight through the broken circle, the spell set Justin’s clothes alight, quite neatly distracting him from Harry, as he freed himself with a careful ‘ _Caedo_ ’, hoping his magic wouldn’t choose this moment to mess up and cut his head off.

Dazed, drunk off the magic, Harry turned and ran deeper into the house, not hearing Elaine’s shouts, and only vaguely aware of Justin’s enraged pursuit. From his arms, Bob snapped out instructions – “Left!” “Right!” “Close the door!” “Concussive spell, Harry, NOW!”

With Bob guiding him, Harry evaded Justin’s grasp and quickly came to the cellar, where he slammed and locked the heavy door behind himself, a quick ‘ _aggredere_ ’ sending the table up against the door. “Bob?” He said uncertainly. Nothing else was needed. Orange light flared.

“Okay,” he said. “This is what we do…”

 

It seemed to take hours to create the doorway, even if it was only a few seconds. By the time Bob was snapping out the destination for the gate-spell, Justin was breaking down the doorway, howling in rage. Seeing Harry there, framed by the light of the portal, he snarled and lunged forward – only to trip over a broken table leg, giving Harry the second and a half he needed to step through the portal, Bob under his arm, and pull it closed behind them.

The last he saw of Justin was mad eyes and a collapsing ceiling.

 

\---

 

It was some time before Harry was calm enough and coherent enough to really take in the place Bob’s instructions had sent them.

It was a great dining hall, the huge double doors at one end thrown wide open, allowing the freezing wind to dump heaps of snow on the floor and the long tables. The firepit was long dead, the abandoned cutlery and fittings rusted, but the cold seemed to have preserved everything else, leaving hangings and furniture frosted in silver-white but otherwise entirely undamaged. Barely breathing, his sneakers crunching in the snow, Harry began to explore.

There was a kitchen, stocked larders frozen over, knives made useless with rust. There were several bedrooms, the primitive approach to plumbing evident in the frozen-over jugs of water tucked under the bed, with their matching basins. There were several smaller rooms, the purposes of which Harry couldn’t even guess, abandoned as they were. There was even a library, largely protected from the snow that had invaded every other room that opened to the outside world by heavy, barred shutters. Harry tucked himself into a corner between two bookshelves, finding the wood a little less chilly than all that stone, and lifted the skull he’d been carrying about, and that had remained stubbornly silent.

“Come on, Bob.” He said tiredly. “Where have you sent us?

Bob remained silent for several long seconds, and then he gave an unnecessary sigh (Harry wondered briefly just how Bob talked, then realised how entirely irrelevant that was, and put it aside). “This is – or was –” he began, “the holding of the North Wind, a fae courtier who fell out of favour a long time ago. With him gone, everyone else left. No one wants to be associated with someone who got one of the Queens of Winter angry.”

Harry thought about this, and asked the obvious question: “Won’t it be dangerous for _us_ to stay here, then?” Bob chuckled. “Less dangerous than anywhere else,” he replied dryly. “And it’s only dangerous if we get caught.”

Harry considered this. How much worse could things get? Really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin courtesy of Wiktionary  
>  _Ignio_ \- I set alight  
>  _Caedo_ \- I cut/hew/strike/kill  
>  _Aggredere_ \- Imperative. Go towards, approach, beset, assault


End file.
